‘The duchess’ chamber, Heriot?’ Freya laughed as he covered her in kisses. ‘You aim high.’
‘Very high and why not?’
Heriot tugged her towards the bed and together they sank onto the edge, kissing hungrily. Freya felt her body warm up from somewhere right at its very core, as if Heriot had lit a well of charcoal deep inside her. She’d been carrying it around these last days, heavy and awkward, but now it flared purposefully and as he pulled her closer, she put out a tentative hand and felt the hard muscle beneath his shirt. She ran first one hand and then the other across his chest, growing in confidence as he groaned at her touch, then he was kissing her again and she lost herself in the sensations pinging like arrows across her entire self.
‘My lord! My lord, my lady – have a care!’
The guard’s cry broke across the blissful volley of feelings and Freya yanked away.
‘The duchess!’ Marcus cried from below, in a clear panic. ‘The duchess is returning.’
For a moment Freya and Heriot froze, then they heard the clatter of the door below and a sharp voice complaining of the cold.
‘Wine, my lady?’ Marcus offered loudly. ‘Come seat yourself by the fire to warm up.’
‘No need to shout,’ Matilda said to him but by the sound of the pouring liquid she had accepted the drink.
‘Quick,’ Heriot hissed, drawing Freya up and straightening her gown.
‘What do we do?’ she whispered, glancing nervously to the stairs.
They could not get down without the duchess seeing them, but if they stayed here she would surely find them when she came to bed, then she would report them to William and Heriot would lose his place in the guards.
‘I am tired, Marcus,’ they heard her say. ‘Fetch my maids, please.’
‘Of course, my lady. I will go now.’ He all but shouted the latter.
‘I am not deaf,’ Matilda objected crossly but Marcus had gone with a dramatic slam of the door.
‘What if she comes up?’
Freya looked urgently around but there was nowhere to hide. Even the space beneath the big bed was filled with Matilda’s travelling chests. Heriot crossed to the window opening and lifted the heavy leather curtain. He looked back at Freya.
‘It’s not too far down,’ Heriot whispered. ‘Do you think you could?’
Freya swallowed. She’d never been good with heights but what else could they do? She set her teeth and crossed to join him. A sound below made them both look in panic to the stairs and then they heard a low murmur floating up towards their nervous ears.
‘What’s she doing?’ Heriot hissed, clutching Freya close.
‘I think she’s praying.’
Sure enough the little duchess’ voice lifted in the paternoster, sweet on the night air despite their fear. Then they heard her say: ‘God grant me the strength to be a good wife, the wisdom to understand my husband’s needs and the grace to love him as he sorely needs.’
Freya’s heart clenched. She pictured the duke, back rigid, eyes hard, and wished the young woman below them luck with him. Few women chose their husbands and the higher your status the lower your freedom in this, as in so much else.
‘Poor thing,’ she said.
Heriot kissed her.
‘She is a Princess of Flanders, Freya, she will cope. We must look to ourselves, my sweet. Are you ready?’
‘I’m ready, Heriot.’
‘I’ll go first, and then I can catch you.’
Heriot pushed the curtain up and hitched himself onto the ledge. He had to hunch his broad shoulders to make it through the slim gap but then he was gone, as if sucked into the Yule night, and a soft sigh of snow below showed that he’d landed. Freya peered out.
‘Come, my love.’
It wasn’t far, she told herself, not far at all, but it looked as vast a height as jumping from a cliff. Fear shook at her legs but she forced herself to sit on the ledge. The curtain pushed against her back as if shoving her out and her fingers tightened instinctively.
‘I’ll catch you.’
Heriot’s arms were wide. Somewhere on the other side of the bower Freya could hear voices as Emeline and Cecilia approached but it was only the sound of a tread on the wooden stairs behind that gave her the courage to jump.
Freya landed plumb in Heriot’s arms, her feet only just grazing the soft snow as he caught her tight against him.
‘Well done,’ he murmured, ‘well done, my love. And now we must go.’
She nodded and let him hustle her away.
‘Where to?’ Freya asked as they ran but they both knew that tonight’s chance had gone. ‘The hall?’ she suggested and Heriot reluctantly nodded.
‘We have each other in our hearts,’ he said, ‘it is enough.’
‘It will have to be,’ Freya agreed sadly as they reached the back door of the hall and Heriot released her.
‘You go first.’
Freya went but at the doors she looked back. Heriot was standing in the snow, his hands half held out towards her and his eyes so soft with love that she could hardly bear it. Running back, she stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on his lips. His hands clenched and she saw the effort it cost him not to clasp her close so she forced herself to leave.
Had the interruption been a message from God? she wondered uneasily, as she slid back into the rowdy hall. A condemnation of their illicit passion for each other? Or was it just a quirk of men? Or even, indeed, a trick? Emeline had seemed so nice, so genuine, but Freya was sure she was a woman more inclined to help herself than others and knew she must be cautious. For now she was tired. The Yule feast was winding itself to a boisterous conclusion. The musicians were playing their last tune and men were gathering for a race around the benches and suddenly it all felt too much for Freya. She would find her father and retire to her bed to dream of what so nearly could have been.
CHAPTER SEVEN
26 December 1051
Horses pawed at the dawn-bright snow, hawks flapped eagerly on their masters’ arms, hounds ran between the legs of the gathered courtiers, and the crisp air was filled with cries of excitement and encouragement. The Yule hunt was ready to ride and keenest of all was King Edward’s honoured guest.
Freya watched as Duke William paced the yard on his stallion. The beast was not in its ceremonial garb today but Freya thought it looked even more magnificent stripped back, its black coat shining in the bright December light and its big hooves pawing at the ground, as eager to run out as its master. William, in a hunting tunic of darkest red and with a neat goshawk on his forearm, was smiling broadly and for a moment Freya saw a glimpse of the man behind the stern ruler’s facade.
She thought of Matilda’s private words to God last night and wondered at the nature of their partnership. Matilda was out too today, riding at her husband’s side on her own beautiful mount, also minus its finery and looking as mystical as a unicorn with its luminous white coat and fine bones. As Freya watched them, William lifted a goblet of mulled wine from the trays carried round by the servant and in one fluid motion turned to offer it to Matilda. She took it with a smile and for a moment their heads leaned close as they exchanged a few words. As far as Freya could tell William’s new wife loved him very well and it warmed her to see it.
Instinctively she looked around for Heriot. It was hard to believe that only three days ago she had ridden into London totally unaware of his existence and now he seemed to fill her whole world. She should seek out the kitchen boy whose misdemeanour had brought them together and shower him with Yule gifts for bringing Heriot to her. It was a madness, whatever was between them – last night had taught her that – but it was irresistible and as today was the last full day of the Normans’ visit she was determined to embrace it.
Freya caught sight of him with William’s other guards. Heriot was already looking at her and she flushed as their eyes met but now the bugles were sounding and there was no time to find each other. The procession moved out behind King Edward and
Duke William, heading over the Tyburn in a tight mass and then streaming out wide, a riot of fur and colour, as they made for the woodlands beyond Chelsea.
‘A golden cup for the man who spears a boar!’ King Edward cried and the hunters roared approval. Boar, the traditional beasts for the Yule table, were wilier than deer and more likely to fight back. It took skill and bravery to skewer one but the men were keen for the challenge.
Freya hung back a little. She was a bold rider but her pony was new and she wasn’t yet sure of her capabilities in the forest. Besides, she had no intention of skewering a boar, or any other creature; she was out for the exhilaration of the ride and the joy of the occasion, not to mention the lure of the company. Already servants had led a gaggle of packhorses deep into the forest to a wide clearing where they would set up a grand eating pavilion for the riders to rest and refresh themselves. Freya knew she would be unlikely to see Heriot during the hunt but perhaps at the meal they could share a little time.
Her own bay was catching the mood, stretching out her young legs as they chased across the grasslands towards the first trees and Freya released her into a gallop, enjoying the rush of pace. Ahead of her Wilf was urging his own mount after the men and she felt a momentary tremor of fear for him but he was a strong horseman, well used to the wild terrain of the west, and these tame southern woods should not undo him. Besides, he needed to learn how to be a man and that was a risky business wherever you were.
Wilf caught up with Laurent and Freya watched them calling out to each other, spurring their horses on as they raced to the trees. She smiled as Wilf surged past the Norman and she blew an unseen kiss after her no-longer-so-little brother. Laurent disappeared after him and Freya glanced back to the edges of London, fast receding from view. Alodie had stayed behind today. She was tired still and had confessed to Freya that she had bled a little.
‘The midwives say it is nothing to concern myself about but I am to rest. It’s very inconvenient but I cannot risk the babe.’ She’d smiled weakly. ‘I will ride out in the carts with the old and the lame to join you for lunch.’
Freya had refused to let her mope.
‘Good,’ she’d said firmly, kissing her cheek. ‘You are in danger of becoming almost wise, Alodie Reeve. Stay warm and peaceful.’
‘Peaceful,’ Alodie had grunted. ‘Boring, you mean. Mind you – I could finish sewing that beautiful trim I bought at the market onto my blue gown and then I could wear it tonight.’
She’d been much cheered at this prospect and Freya had left her contentedly summoning the maids with her sewing box. It was for the best but it would have been nice to have her at her side now.
‘Lady Freya, good morrow.’
Freya turned to see Emeline riding up at her side. Did that woman track her everywhere she went?
‘Good morrow,’ Freya said stiffly.
Emeline leaned in.
‘I’m so sorry about last night. I had no idea the duchess would be back so soon. She usually stays with her husband all night but it seems the abbot arrived.’
‘The abbot?’
‘Robert – your archbishop.’
Freya pictured the thin-faced cleric, so often at King Edward’s shoulder, and shuddered.
‘What did he want with Duke William at that time of night?’
‘To pray probably. They’re always at it!’ Freya swallowed a shocked giggle but Emeline was still talking. ‘Truth to tell, I don’t think the duchess minded for she felt unwell. I think she may, perhaps, be with child.’
‘Should you be telling me that?’
Emeline shrugged.
‘There are always rumours and it will become clear enough if and when God blesses them.’
That much was true but still Freya could not decide if Emeline was refreshingly honest or more devious than most.
‘The duke will be pleased if it is so,’ she said cautiously.
‘He will,’ the French girl agreed, ‘but it was not such good tidings for you and . . .’
‘Hush!’
Freya set her head high and Emeline smiled.
‘You English! You are such prudes.’
‘Prudes?’ Freya was indignant. ‘We are not the ones who ban dancing and spend half the night in prayers.’
Emeline tossed her pretty head.
‘We are not all like the duke, my lady. William was brought up with few friends save God and is, perhaps, more comfortable with Him than with men, but we have not all been so harshly raised. Besides, I am not Norman, but French.’
‘Hot blood,’ Freya said, without thinking.
‘Pardon?’
She blushed at her own rudeness.
‘Sorry. It’s just something my father was saying the other day.’
Emeline grinned wickedly.
‘He might be right. My mother’s blood veritably boiled at times and I admire her for it.’
Then, with a wink, she rode into the trees and was gone, leaving Freya more confused about her than ever.
‘Alodie!’ Freya slipped down off her pony as the cart rolled into the clearing at midday and ran to her friend. ‘Are you well?’
Freya looked her up and down but Alodie’s cheeks were sweetly pink and her eyes bright and she nodded keenly.
‘Very well. The rest has done me good and my gown looks gorgeous. How goes the hunt?’
‘Very well too. Duke William shot a deer with his bow. I saw it myself – he is very skilled – and as a result he is in a very good mood, which is cheering everyone. The king’s hawk bagged a sizeable hare so he is pleased too and by the sound of the shouting over yonder, I’d say someone has just earned themselves a golden cup.’
‘Golden cup? Can you shoot those out the trees these days?’
Freya laughed.
‘King Edward promised one to any boar-slayer and look, here they come triumphant.’
She waved down the wide path to their left. Four burly servants were carrying a slain boar bound to a long stake and behind it, hoisted on the shoulders of his fellows, was its killer.
‘Heriot!’
Freya put her hands to her mouth, delighted, and Alodie looked at her shrewdly.
‘“Heriot”, my sweet? You’ve come to know your rescuer well, then?’
‘We have talked,’ Freya admitted.
Alodie looked her up and down.
‘Talked, I’m sure – and more besides by the look of the roses in your cheeks.’
Freya sighed.The men were parading Heriot around the clearing and he looked so glorious flushed with his triumph, his hair wild and his tunic sprayed with boar’s blood, that she longed to throw herself at him.
‘A little more besides,’ she admitted quietly.
‘But not quite enough,’ Alodie said astutely.
Freya looked away. She did long for time alone with Heriot but not in the scurrilous way Alodie’s raised eyebrow was suggesting, just for a chance to be together as a man and a woman, not a knight and a lady or a Norman and a Saxon. The court, though, was not set up for people to be alone and she must make the most of what she had. The look he sent her as he was set down before the king and presented with a beautiful golden goblet was enough to set her aflame without a single touch and she cherished the thrill of it. Heriot was the hero of the hunt – even Duke William was clapping him on the back – and he was hers, even if she were the only one to know it.
‘Quite a prize,’ Alodie said at her side as Heriot, roared on by the men, downed ale from his golden cup, ‘but not, I think, the one he really looks for.’
Freya just smiled.
‘We cannot always have what we want,’ she said lightly and turned to her food, determined to enjoy the rich game pies, cold meats and soft breads that were being brought round.
To finish there were fruit tartlets, each one with a Christ-child’s star cut in its lid, and tiny hunting cups of fiery mead. Already the light was starting to fade but the glow from the braziers lit a circle around the diners keeping the tables bright a
nd the frost at bay, and Freya continued to exchange looks with Heriot that kept her body tingling beneath her fur-lined cloak. Before long, though, Duke William grew restless, keen to explore further into the forest whilst there was still the chance.
‘The conditions are perfect,’ the duke said loudly as men settled back for a second cup of mead. ‘If we ride out now we can bag more quarry.’
‘More quarry!’ Freya heard one Norman mutter to his neighbour. ‘It is always more with him.’
His friend mumbled assent but they rose all the same and moved towards their horses, who were munching hay amongst the trees and looked no keener than their riders to resume the chase. All around, though, men were rising, stretching out stiff limbs. Freya saw her father talking eagerly to a friend as they found their mounts and Wilf bounding for his, spear in his hand. She stood. Heriot was drawing close and she dared to step forward.
‘Congratulations on your conquest, Count Heriot.’
‘Thank you, Lady Freya, but ’twas nothing. The boar was old and frail.’
‘Indeed he was not,’ another knight said. ‘He fought like a Viking, even when the spear was deep in his belly; it took strength to haul him in, courage too. The cup is well deserved.’
Heriot shrugged off the praise.
‘You will ride again, my lady?’ he asked.
‘I think not,’ she replied, falling into step with him as they moved towards the horses, for Duke William was already mounted and his huge horse was fidgeting agitatedly. ‘I shall ride back to Westminster to rest before dinner.’
‘Rest?’
Heriot’s eyes darkened and Freya dared a smile but at that moment she felt something sharp in her back and stumbled to the ground.
‘Oh no!’ Alodie called loudly. ‘A tree root. Poor you. Are you well?’
Freya looked up at her friend from her ungainly pile in the snow. Why did this seem to keep happening when Heriot was around?
‘Yes, I . . .’
‘You have, perhaps, turned your ankle?’
Alodie crouched at Freya’s side, her eyes flashing.
‘My ankle?’
The Christmas Court Page 6